


The Secrets We Keep

by Morwen_Maranwe



Series: The Games We Play [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, Butt Plugs, Come play, Dirty Talk, Infidelity, Lots of come, M/M, Mild D/S dynamic, Possessive Sherlock, Rough Sex, Smut, Swearing, implied threesome, slight dubcon but John secretly likes it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 15:18:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2196738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morwen_Maranwe/pseuds/Morwen_Maranwe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John loves Greg Lestrade.  His husband is compassionate, caring, attentive, nurturing.  Understanding.  But there is just something about Sherlock Holmes that has John forgetting all of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secrets We Keep

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in a ‘verse that I am currently working on, which will end up being sort of like a prequel to this piece, I guess. This fic is purposefully vague about the situation that the boys are in, and you don’t really need to know anything other than what is stated in here except that in this ‘verse, Sherlock took about 5 years to come back and John and Greg got married during that time and live at Baker St together.
> 
> Huge thanks to the best beta, That Kid With The Long Coat, for the excellent suggestions!

John loves Greg Lestrade.  His husband is compassionate, caring, attentive, nurturing.  Understanding.

But there is just something about the way Sherlock Holmes fucks him that has John forgetting all of that.

The way Sherlock dominates him, in a way that Greg never does, never could.

The hands around his wrists tighten, rubbing the delicate bones together in a way that hurts too much, not nearly enough.  The fingers gripping him tightly are soon replaced with the sharp burn of the tie from John’s dressing gown being pulled taut around them, smashing them together and cutting into the sensitive flesh of his wrists.  He grits his teeth against the first wave of pain, and then relaxes into it, his cock hardening below him.

“When was the last time he touched you?” Sherlock asks above him, his voice dark and deep, sending shivers through John’s already trembling body.  Neither men are wearing any clothing, and the flat is slightly chilled, but John knows that isn’t the reason he is shaking.

John figures he takes too long to answer—but, really, how is he supposed to think clearly enough to answer a question like that?—because suddenly there are fingers in his short hair that are yanking his head back, exposing his face, and he closes his eyes as he cries out softly.  He feels the slick tip of a hard cock pushing past his lips, invading his mouth harshly, punishing his throat as Sherlock grips his hair and works John’s head over his cock.

“If there’s not a good reason for you to not answer me, I’ll give you one.”

Sherlock shoves deep into John’s mouth—too deep—and John’s not used to such treatment, not from Greg, not from anyone, and he chokes loudly, obscenely, his cock hardening without him even touching himself.  He can tell that Sherlock enjoys the sounds and the slick saliva that he is producing because the taller man groans in pleasure and grinds deeper into John’s mouth, gagging him, suffocating him.  All John can do is relax his throat, slacken his jaw and try to find space around Sherlock’s cock to breathe, and he loves every second of it.

Greg doesn’t fuck John like this.  After so many years of being together, John doubts if what he and Greg _do_ can be called anything other than ‘making love’.  But he needs to be fucked every once in a while.

So he makes love to his husband, and he fucks Sherlock Holmes.

This is how he lives his life now, and he’ll be damned if he is going to feel ashamed of it.  How could he, when Sherlock is pounding into him, using his body so sweetly?

For a split second, Sherlock thrusts even deeper, almost impossibly so, and John can’t help the choking noises and coughs that erupt within him as Sherlock mercifully pulls out of his mouth, finally giving him the chance to inhale air properly and catch his breath again.  But he isn’t allowed his reprieve for too long—he is immediately turned and pushed harshly face first into the floor of the sitting room.  He falls ungracefully forward, spinning on his knees.  His tied hands are only barely able to keep him from smashing his face against the hardwood, although not entirely.  He is too busy still trying to regain his breath to protest as Sherlock’s hands grab him around the hips and tug his waist upwards, letting him tuck his knees underneath his torso, arse in the air and completely exposed.

Sherlock likes him in this position, John knows.  He pushes John’s knees far enough apart so that his arse cheeks can’t hide his hole, leaving him open and ready for anything that Sherlock wants to do to him.

He shivers and trembles as Sherlock’s finger rubs over his arsehole, petting him gently.

“It’s been a while since he’s fucked you, hasn’t it, John?” Sherlock asks him, voice dark and deep and John can only whimper in reply.  “You look so tight, like you haven’t been stretched in ages.  I can fix that for you.”

“Please,” John whispers.  _‘Please fix it, fix me, make it better_ , _’_ he wants to say, but he can’t find the confidence to speak the words.

Sherlock hears them nonetheless.

Sherlock preps him harshly, right from the start.  Two fingers.  And though he uses plenty of lube, John can still feel the stretching burn, and it is just another reminder that it is not Greg who is fucking him—Greg would never do this to him, never make him hurt this way, so deliciously, so perfectly.  Soft, gentle, always-careful Greg.

John asks Sherlock for another finger before his body is really ready to take it.

Sherlock chuckles and obliges quickly.  “So good for me, you open so well,” he praises John, and his voice is dripping with pride for his lover.

John moans happily beneath him, basking in the compliment.  His hips jerk wildly when Sherlock’s long fingers brush over his prostate, and Sherlock continues to poke at it steadily, watching hungrily as each prod milks a thin stream of precome out of John’s hanging cock that trickles slowly onto the floor.  John can feel the sticky threads snapping apart with little spurts of liquid along the length of his thighs when they get too long.

When Sherlock finally grows impatient, he pulls his fingers out of John without warning, and the feeling is odd—it always is, John thinks with a grimace—but he doesn’t complain because he knows that he will be filled again shortly, and he shivers in anticipation.

Indeed, Sherlock doesn’t keep John empty for long and he moves quickly to align himself behind the man.  He groans as he enters John, a deep, animalistic noise that makes John’s heart stutter in his chest.  There’s no moment to get comfortable, no time to adjust—there never is when Sherlock is in this kind of mood—and the brunet man wastes no time as he begins to fuck John mercilessly; hard, deep thrusts that have John skidding across the hardwood floor on bony, bruised knees.  Each time he slides forward, Sherlock’s hands grip him tightly and pull him back, and John knows that there will be hell to pay tomorrow, when the bruises will be at their worst.

But he doesn’t care about any of that now.  He only wants more, harder, deeper, faster, and he can hear the words falling out of his open mouth in huffs of air as Sherlock fucks into him from behind, relentlessly, and John moans into his forearms as they brace his head against the floor.

“He doesn’t fuck you like I do, does he?” Sherlock asks him suddenly, and John has to use all of his focus to listen to Sherlock’s words.  When Sherlock asks questions while fucking John he always expects answers, and John doesn’t like to disappoint him.  So he tries his hardest to pay attention to what Sherlock is saying, and not to the feel of the man’s thick cock stretching him open.  “He doesn’t make you feel as good as I do.  Tell me.  Tell me all the ways I make you feel good that he doesn’t.  Tell me how I’m so much better than he is.”

John groans, because he doesn’t like comparing Greg to Sherlock.  It’s not fair, and it makes him feel guilty.  But Sherlock knows all of this.  That’s why he does it.

“Tell me,” he urges again, amidst a particularly vicious thrust.

“Yes,” John pants out, turning his head to the side so that Sherlock can hear him through his gasps for air.  “You fuck me so much better.  He doesn’t do this to me.  He can’t have me like this, the way you do.  Only you can do this to me.  Only you can fuck me this way.  Only you can make me feel like this.”

John is incoherent, babbling, not even really aware of what he is saying, but it seems to make Sherlock happy.  The man moans and fucks into him harder, angling now so that each thrust brushes against John’s sensitive prostate, and John keens.

After a moment his knees begin to hurt in earnest, the delicate bones rolling back and forth along the hardwood floor beneath him as Sherlock thrusts into him over and over again, ruthlessly, but he knows better than to say anything.  If he were to complain, Sherlock would only fuck him harder, anyways.  There is no escaping anything Sherlock wants to subject him to.  But that’s okay, because John doesn’t really want him to stop in the first place.

“Do you like this, John?” Sherlock asks again, and John can tell that he is close by the sound of his voice.  It’s gone tight and sharp, his breath is out of control and John clenches his hole around Sherlock’s cock, helping the man along.  “Getting to have both of us?  Taking his cock, then my cock, whenever you want?  Knowing that you have us so ensnared by you that neither of us will ever be able to leave, to stop this vicious cycle from continuing?”

“Yes, Sherlock,” John pants, mindless.  “I love it.  I love having you both.  Letting you both use me, fuck me.  I can’t get enough of it.  It’s not ever enough.  Please.  Please, touch me, I need it.”

Sherlock obliges him, happy to give in to John whenever the man tells him exactly what he wants to hear, whenever he begs so nicely.  John has gotten very good at knowing exactly what Sherlock wants to hear from him.

He can feel one of Sherlock’s hands leaving his hips, trailing down along his leg and sliding under to grab his prick, hanging thick and swollen between his thighs, an angry almost-purple color from being neglected for so long.  He grips just a little too tightly, and John gasps in pain, and it is glorious.  Sherlock doesn’t pump him at all except once in the beginning, dragging his palm across the fat head of John’s cock so that he can smear his hand with John’s precome.  After that Sherlock just grabs John’s cock around the shaft and _squeezes_ , and he lets the force of his thrusts cause John to fuck himself into Sherlock’s grip.

“Should I tell you not to clean up after I’m done using you?” Sherlock whispers, and the words sound almost pained.  “Should I make you lie here, open and leaking, holding yourself up so that he can see what I’ve done to you?  The mess I’ve made of you?  So that he can see how you’ll let me do anything I want to you?”

“Yes,” John gasps, breath and rational thought having left him long ago. “Yes, please.  I want him to see.  I want him to see me like that, _please_.”  He’ll do anything Sherlock tells him to do; he knows this.  No shame, no remorse, no regrets.  If Sherlock wants him to kneel arse-up on the floor and wait for Greg to come home to find him dirtied and debauched by another man, he knows he will do it.  He gave up the will to say no to Sherlock a long time ago.

The fingertips of Sherlock’s right hand dig into the flesh at his hips, gripping tightly, seeking more leverage to steady himself so that he can fuck into John’s body harder, faster, and John’s mind boggles at the pain there.  Greg has never been able to leave marks on that part of John’s body, no matter how hard he grips the smaller man, no matter how much John begs and pleads for a tighter hold, a stronger touch, more, more, more.  But he knows there will be marks left once Sherlock removes his fingers, the pain telling him that bruises will linger long after the feel of Sherlock plunging into him has faded.  The thought makes the tip of his cock leak all the more copiously into Sherlock’s left hand and suddenly he can’t help it, he can feel the pressure building up and up and up, the pleasure reaching a breaking point.

“Sherlock, I’m gonna—”

“Yes,” Sherlock cuts him off, and squeezes his cock harder.  “ _Yes_.”

John comes with a body-wracking shudder, spilling onto the floor beneath him shamelessly in a messy puddle that Sherlock creates by wanking John’s cock harshly so that the liquid sprays everywhere.  In his over-sensitive state John tries to pull away from the stimulation and his knees land in the mess, smearing it even more across the floor and his skin.

“Sherlock, stop, stop, please,” he begs, still trying vainly to pull away from the man.  But Sherlock only grips him tighter and pulls him closer and John shouts out, grimacing.  “I can’t take anymore, Sherlock, _please!_ ”

Behind him he hears Sherlock chuckle darkly.  “You’ll take what I want to give you, John, and you won’t complain.”  He clicks his tongue slightly in reproach.  “You know better than that.”  His fingers run over the head of John’s sensitive cock, squeezing the crown and milking the last few drops of come out of him, fingers smearing through it messily and spreading it down the shaft as he continues to pump John languidly.

Beneath him, a crumpled, writhing heap on the floor, the combined feelings make John sob into his forearms.  He bites the soft skin of his wrists to try to distract him from Sherlock’s hand gliding slickly over his too-sensitive cock and Sherlock’s prick stretching the skin of his hole, pounding painfully into his swollen prostate.

“I love seeing you like this, John,” Sherlock tells him.  “I love having you like this.  He can’t make you feel this way, can he?”

“No, Sherlock, no,” John whimpers, and he doesn’t know if he is answering the brunet man’s question or still pleading with him to stop.

“Beautiful,” Sherlock responds, and then John feels him drape his long, lean body over John’s back.  Mercifully, Sherlock’s hand leaves John’s cock and trails slowly up John’s stomach, over his chest, across his neck, leaving a shiny, slick trail of come in its wake.  It keeps going until it finds John’s hands, still tied together tightly.  From his position, all John has to do is lift his head slightly and he can see Sherlock’s hand, still dripping with John’s release, as Sherlock twines their fingers together, his left hand with John’s left hand.

As he watches, Sherlock’s digits slide over John’s, sometimes not able to find purchase, slimy as they are with come.  But as they move, John feels Sherlock caress his wedding ring every time his fingers slide over it, covering it in John’s ejaculate.  John’s breath catches in his throat and he can’t tear his eyes away from the debased sight in front of him.

John always wears his wedding ring whenever Sherlock fucks him.  He doesn’t see the point in taking it off and Sherlock never tells him to.  He knows that Sherlock likes to look at it, sitting around John’s finger, a little tight now after too many nights of greasy takeaway.  Sherlock runs the pad of his index finger along it as he squeezes John’s hand while he fucks into him relentlessly.  His other hand leaves John’s hip and comes up to the back of his neck, pushing John’s face into the floor roughly and cutting off John’s oxygen.  John has to turn his head to the side so that the pain is lessened somewhat, and he knows there will be visible fingermarks there later.

“I’m going to come, John,” Sherlock gasps, pressing his whole body into John’s back as he fucks him, bent over him so that he can grasp John’s hand in his own, so that he can tighten his hold on John’s neck with his other hand.  “And when I do you are going to clench your loose little hole and keep me inside of you, do you understand?”

“Ye—yes!  Yes, God, please, give it to me!”

He doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore, Sherlock has made him mindless, crazy.

“Good, yes.  Shh, don’t worry,” Sherlock soothes him, because John has started to make little whining noises deep in his throat.  “I’ll give you what you need.”

“Sherlock,” John whimpers, lost.  “Sherlock.”

Sherlock moans when he comes, his thrusts stuttering and finally slowing while his chest heaves in great deep breaths along John’s back, his crushing grip on John’s body loosening at last as Sherlock goes pliant.  Beneath him, John can feel his thighs trembling with the effort of holding them both up, and the weight on his abused knees is painful.  He pants deeply himself, finally able to take in all of the oxygen he needs now that Sherlock is not trying to choke him.

Against the side of his face, he feels Sherlock press small, light kisses to any exposed skin within his reach and John hums in pleasure, happy and sated.

“Remember what I said, John,” Sherlock murmurs as he heaves himself off of John’s back and struggles to disengage from John’s body.  “Clench now.  There’s a good boy.”

John groans at the feeling of Sherlock pulling out—it’s always so uncomfortable—but he tightens his hole quickly and waits for Sherlock to plug him up.

Only after Sherlock gently squeezes the toy past his loosened, red hole does John try to move.  He lifts himself into a standing position with a groan and holds his tied wrists out to Sherlock silently, who unknots the sash without a word.  As he expected, his knees are killing him but, surprisingly, so are his elbows from where they were braced against the floor much the same way his knees were.  He looks down at himself, his lower half completely covered in his own release, the viscous liquid catching in his thick leg hair and matting little clumps of it together.  As he looks himself over he can see that there is rope burn along his wrists and his patellae are a bright, ruddy red from being dragged across the floor.  There are angry looking fingerprint marks all along his hipbones.  One look across the room at the large mirror that is hanging on the wall over the fireplace and John can also see a bright discoloration along one side of his face from where Sherlock pushed his head into the floor, and he is sure that his elbows host the same redness as his knees if the deep soreness in them is any indication.

“Damnit, Sherlock,” he complains on a long-suffering sigh, rubbing his fingers absently over some of the marks.  “You left bruises everywhere again.”

“So?” Sherlock sniffs derisively as he wipes himself off with John’s discarded jumper.  “I didn’t hear you voicing any concern while I was giving them to you.”

“You know Greg doesn’t like to see the bruises,” John chastises as he makes his way uncomfortably to his chair.  He has never quite gotten used to the feeling of walking while he is filled with the plug.  When he reaches the seat, he sits down in it gingerly so that he doesn’t get it too dirty, being sure to keep his come-covered legs away from the fabric.

Sherlock scoffs and rolls his eyes as he pulls on his trousers and does up the zip.  “That’s only because it reminds him of everything I can give you that he cannot,” he remarks snidely, a wicked smirk on his lips as he shrugs into his dress shirt and starts on the long line of buttons. 

“Sherlock, don’t—”

Sherlock cuts him off then, speaking harshly and too loudly.  “If he has a problem with it, then he can take it up with me.”  And John knows by the dark tone of Sherlock’s voice that the topic is closed from discussion.

Cleaned and completely redressed, Sherlock turns moodily towards the desk by the window, sitting down in the chair with a flounce and proceeding to check his website and the blog in silence on John’s pilfered laptop.  He doesn’t hand John any tissues or his clothes, or tell him to clean up, and John knows what that means.  The words don’t have to be spoken for John to know how this is going to go anymore.  Sherlock likes it when Greg comes home and sees John dirty and clearly well-fucked.  So John clenches his arsehole around the plug and keeps his legs away from the upholstery as well as he comfortably can and hopes that Greg won’t be much longer, because he knows he will start staining the furniture soon.

So the two men sit in 221b and wait for the inevitable to come.  And it does, eventually, making its presence known in heavy footfalls on the stairs that speak of a hard day’s work. 

As the door to the flat opens up both John and Sherlock turn to look, not ashamed of what they’ve done, not trying to hide it.  Because they have promised that they will never hide it from Greg. They will pay him at least that much respect.  They have never wanted to intentionally hurt him, so they don’t ever try to cover up what they do.

It takes Greg a moment to comprehend the situation, because at first he doesn’t see John sitting naked in his chair, the doctor has gone so still and quiet.  Greg’s eyes fall on Sherlock first, but the dark smirk on the consulting detective’s lips must give something away, because John sees Greg’s gaze immediately dart over to him.  At the deep, penetrating look Greg gives him, John blushes ferociously and has to force himself to maintain eye contact with his husband.

There is a quiet, tense moment where Greg does nothing—no movement, no breathing, no thoughts, no heartbeat—before the older man is making his way towards John, reaching a steady hand out towards his husband’s face and the doctor can’t help the small flinch that pinches at his features.  But he remains still, stoically knowing that he deserves whatever it is that Greg wants to do to him.

Unsurprisingly, Greg takes John’s chin lightly in his fingers and tilts John’s face up so that he can see it better.  When he sees Greg’s mouth set in an unhappy line, John knows exactly what his husband is looking at.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” Greg growls lowly, dangerously, as his eyes rove over the rest of John’s body quickly, with a policeman’s training, taking in the ligature marks on John’s wrists, the state of his knees, the bruises forming on his hips.  “He’s black and blue!”

Greg drops John’s chin and turns to glare at the younger man, a dark, thunderous look coming over his face.

“I thought that we had agreed that this wasn’t going to happen again,” Greg says softly, but it sounds loud in the stillness of the sitting room.  John fidgets uncomfortably in his seat.

“I never agreed to such a thing,” Sherlock states matter-of-factly, as if that’s the only explanation he owes Greg.  “Beside it’s ultimately John’s decision, you know that.  I won’t deny him anything that he wants.  So if you’re going to blame someone, it should be him.”

For the first time since Greg has come home, John speaks, scoffing sardonically.  “Oh, that’s chivalrous.  Thanks for hanging me out to dry, Sherlock.”

“Christ, you two,” Greg interrupts before John and Sherlock can get sidetracked.  He brings large, square hands up to rub tiredly at his face and sighs.  “I don’t know why I put up with this, I really don’t.”

“On the contrary, Greg,” Sherlock says, an evil smile forming on his full lips as he stands up from the desk chair and moves towards the detective inspector.  “I do believe that you know exactly why you put up with this.” 

He reaches out a pale hand to grab Greg’s tanned one, removing it from his face and using it as leverage to pull the older man closer to him.  Sherlock’s arms wrap around Greg and hold him tightly, and the younger man tilts his head almost coyly to press a soft, barely-there kiss to Greg’s lips.  

It is the only apology Sherlock will give him.

“You know we always make it up to you, Greg,” John says as he, too, stands and moves to cover Greg from the other side.  When he reaches him, he stands on the tips of his toes to press up against Greg’s back as much as he can and stretches to press a kiss to the back of his husband’s neck, boxing the older man in between the two of them.

Greg laughs and the sound drains the last of the weariness from his voice.  “God help me,” he says with a warm smile.  “I love you both too much to stay mad at you when you’re like this.  Sodding idiots,” he says fondly, reaching out his hands to bring both men closer to him, pressing all three of them close to one another.  “Come on,” he tells them.  “Show me what you two naughty children have been up to.  I want to see.”

Sherlock’s smile lights up his face and John chuckles at his men, blushing slightly because he knows that he will soon be spread out again, this time for Greg instead of Sherlock.  The change in audience is no less arousing, though.

Sherlock wastes no time in untangling from Greg’s arms and stepping out to the middle of the sitting room, a large space already cleared away from their earlier activity.  He pulls John along with him excitedly and maneuvers the blond man into position, laying him prostrate on the floor and manipulating John’s legs so that his knees are bent.  John flushes deeply at the exposing position but quietly lets Sherlock move him.  Once he is happy with John’s position, Sherlock looks down at the blond man and then beams up at Greg, like a cat that has brought its master a dead mouse and is waiting silently by for praise.

*

Greg stares at the two men before him, John meekly spread out on the floor beneath him and Sherlock looking pleased with the show of his handy work blossoming in vivid reds and purples all over John’s body and he can’t help but shake his head slightly.

He knows that it’s not John’s fault that the doctor sometimes enjoys—needs—a heavy hand in bed.  And it really works out for the best that Sherlock is a part of them now, because Greg isn’t as young as he once was—isn’t as young as John is, almost a decade of years making a vast difference—and he knows that he could never keep up with Sherlock’s newly awakened sexual desires and even younger body on his own.  So it’s fine that John and Sherlock have each other to busy themselves with, it’s really all fine.

Because after the two of them have finished with each other, then he gets his turn.  And he can do it how he likes, fucking into one of them slowly while he kisses the other deeply, or watching the two of them make out in a languid, spent sort of way as he takes them however he pleases.  As he looks at the two men before him he has to remind himself that he’s mad at Sherlock for leaving marks on John, so he thinks the appropriate penance for that transgression will be to fuck John while Sherlock watches, untouched.  So that Sherlock can see how much John likes what Greg does to him, too; that Sherlock isn’t the only one who knows how to take the blond man apart; Greg just does it in a different way.

Yes, that seems fair, he decides as he moves down to kneel on the ground by John’s feet and hastily opens up his trousers, pushing his khaki’s and pants halfway down his thighs.  Sherlock can watch while Greg makes love to his husband, while Greg takes John the way that _he_ wants to—soft and sweet and easy.

He reaches out to gently turn John over, silently directing the blond onto his knees with his head settling softly on the hardwood floor beneath him, making sure that John’s arms cushion his head against the pine and that a couple of the throw pillows from the sofa make their way under John’s battered knees and elbows.  He knows that Sherlock most likely had him in this exact position earlier.  He knows how much Sherlock likes to see John like this, and he knows how crazy John gets when he is fucked in this position as well—it’s his favorite, after all.  And he can see how the finger marks on John’s hips are tilted, the vivid bruises telling a silent story.  Greg can’t help but stroke softly over the marks, has to remind himself that John had _wanted_ that, that John had more than likely been the one to ask Sherlock for such treatment. 

It should make him feel better about the whole situation, but it doesn’t. 

He knows Sherlock will never hurt John more than the smaller man can take, but he still can’t help the words that come out of his mouth, dark and threatening as he rubs soothing fingers over his husband’s abused skin. 

“If he didn’t love it so damn much, I would make you stop.”

“If he didn’t love it so damn much, I wouldn’t do it in the first place,” Sherlock responds, and Greg knows that’s the God’s honest truth.  John Watson means too much to both of them for either man to ever do anything that would hurt him, or deny him that same hurt.

John makes a small impatient noise, and shifts his hips in his position.  “ _Please_ ,” he gasps out, and Greg can hear that his breath has gone short and ragged.  “Please, will someone just _touch_ me?”

Greg has never been able to deny his husband anything, so he spreads John’s cheeks apart and runs his finger around the base of the plug, trying to squeeze the tip of his digit in between the soft silicone and John’s abused rim.  John shifts restlessly against his touch and Greg decides not to tease him anymore.  He grabs a hold of the plug and pulls it out slowly, being sure to be gentle with the sensitive, reddened entrance of John’s body. 

With the plug out, Greg can tell just by looking at John’s backside—he can see it so clearly—that Sherlock has fucked him hard, loose, and with no condom.  John’s hole gapes open wetly, and Greg stares at it in wonder as it flutters and twitches, oozing come and lube like John is producing it himself.  Greg’s own cock hardens to complete attention just from the sight, no other stimulation necessary.  There is no need for preparation to John’s entrance now—not after Sherlock has used him so well—and he won’t _ever_ tell them how arousing he always finds that.  He doesn’t really need to; they both already know.

He slides easily into John’s open and slick hole, and he knows that he’s home.

**Author's Note:**

> The tags should really be more along the lines of ‘infidelity role play’ but I didn’t want to ruin the surprise! Everything in this story is completely consensual between the 3 of them, who—if it wasn’t clear—are all in a polyamorous relationship together. There should probably also be a ‘polyamory’ tag, but that would have given it away, too! And in case it wasn’t blatantly obvious (did that on purpose), when Greg says ‘ “I thought that we had agreed that this wasn’t going to happen again?” ’, he is talking only about the bruises Sherlock left on John, not the situation itself. Trust me, everything these three do in my head is very, very consensual!


End file.
